


The Pickpocket and the Guard

by Eryn_Ivers



Category: Original Work
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Oral Sex, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn_Ivers/pseuds/Eryn_Ivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After using his strength to kill and destroy for so long, a former soldier becomes a guard in the poorest district of the city to use his strength to protect and defend.  But for one light hearted pickpocket…he failed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pickpocket and the Guard

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey all, I'm super excited to be here and posting my first piece since getting back into writing. I'm eager to meet all of you and hope you enjoy this story!

The Pickpocket and the Guard

By Eryn Ivers

 

The streets of the Waterfront market bustled with people; the strong, dirty kind that didn’t mind the smell of rotting fish and pollution.  Street merchants hawked their wares from within sturdy, transportable stalls, and haggled when a customer showed interest.  Barrels of fish lined the streets and boat captains stood beside their vessels, signing strong, poor men up to crew their next venture.  Through it all grimy children ran underfoot, laughing and shouting.   

Martin crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at a street corner, resting his aching knee with a satisfied smile on his face.  The Waterfront district was his patrol, and though it was one of the most dreaded positions for most City Guards, he enjoyed the characters.

As he stood monitoring the streets, he suddenly felt a light brush against his hip, and he spun around to grab the wrist of the offending hand.  He came face to face with a slim man, who’s blue eyes glittered with laughter, guiltily caught in Martin’s grip.

“Zyk,” Martin scolded.  Zyk grinned broadly at him.  “I could arrest you for that, you know.” 

“Ah, but you never do,” Zyk said, not moving to pull his hand away.  “Besides, I never steal from you.  I always give it back.”  With his free hand, Zyk held up Martin’s small pouch of coins, which had been hanging securely from Martin’s belt before the pickpocket’s arrival.  Martin scowled and snatched it back.  But he couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up in his throat and he released Zyk’s arm.

Zyk assumed Martin’s cross armed posture and joined him against the wall.

“So how goes the city today?” he asked.  Martin shrugged.

“Well enough,” he said.  “No real disturbances.  Couple wheel barrows crashed an hour or so ago.”  He chuckled.  “I thought the two fishermen were going to kill each other.  But I got them sorted out and they’re fine.”

“I bet they rethought their quarrel right quick when they saw you come strutting out,” Zyk said, nudging Martin playfully.

“I’m not that scary,” Martin snorted.

“You’re the law,” Zyk said, “The law scares people.”

“It certainly doesn’t scare you.”

Zyk cast Martin one of those smiles that made him go warm inside.

“No, it doesn’t,” he said with a mischievous grin.  Martin couldn’t help smiling back.  Zyk then suddenly pushed himself up from the wall.  “Oh, by the way, did you hear Pans is selling a new pie today?”

Martin raised an eyebrow.

“A new pie, huh,” he repeated.  “And what sort of house hold pet has he cooked into it this time?”

“No pets!”  Zyk said.  “Though he hasn’t been particularly forth coming with the ingredients.”  He put his hands on his hips and faced Martin.  “Join me for one?”

“I suppose it’s my duty to try one,” Martin replied.  “To make sure they’re safe for the inhabitants of the Waterfront.”

“Our hero,” Zyk swept into a mock bow, and Martin rolled his eyes, brushing past him.  He straightened, making his bad leg stretch and pop.  They made their way into the flow of people, getting swept up and buoyed along to their destination.  Martin had a limp, but though it caused him to walk in a bit of a lopsided manner, he could still move capably and purposefully.  Zyk disappeared occasionally, and Martin tried not to think of him slitting purses.  He was always quick though to return to Martin’s side.  The two of them had become a fairly common sight to the residents of the Waterfront by now and were generally well known, Zyk because he was one of them, and Martin because he was one of the few guards they almost trusted.

They arrived at the pie stand and an older man who liked to remind them that he’d been working these streets for longer than they’d been shitting, welcomed them. 

“Ah, you two,” he exclaimed, “Come to try the new pies?”

“Yes, sir,” Zyk replied. 

“I hear there’s no point in asking what’s in them,” Martin said with a smile, crossing his arms.  Mr. Pans waved his comment away.

“Once you try them, you won’t care!” he said.  He pulled two palm sized pies out of a container inside his stand.  “Half pence each.”

Pickpocket and guard handed over the money and Pans eagerly pushed the pies into their hands. 

“Say, Pans,” Martin said, stalling before actually eating the questionable food in his hand.  “How’s your daughter?  I heard she was expecting.”

Pans face lit up proudly at that.

“A few months to go yet, but my Lessie is still strong as an ox,” he said.  Zyk laughed.

“She always was,” he agreed.  “She used to challenge me to wrestling matches when we were kids just to prove she could beat a boy.”

Despite his delight in talking about his daughter, Pans caught to their game quickly and motioned for them to eat. 

“Go on, already,” he scolded. 

“After you,” Martin said with a nod to his companion. 

“Coward.”  Zyk took a big bite of the flaky pastry, and looked thoughtful as he chewed.  Then he smiled and nodded and Martin followed suit.  The warmth filled his mouth with a seasoned, savory taste and tender, if unidentified, meat.  Martin swallowed and smiled as well.  He nodded to the old baker.

“You’ve out done yourself with this one, Pans,” he said.  “Don’t you—Zyk?”  He’d turned to address the man beside him but paused to see him staring past Martin with a hard frown.  Martin turned to see a group of four tough-looking men, whom even the rough hewn denizens of the district gave a wide berth.

“Don’t you think about it, Zyk,” Mr. Pans growled.  He gave the young pickpocket a hard look.  “You stay away from them.”

“Why?” Zyk asked insolently. 

“Because they’re trouble.” 

Zyk raised an eyebrow, some of his cheekiness back.

“More trouble than me?”

“Yes.”  Pans was not amused.

“Who are they?”  Martin asked.  He knew most of the residents of this side of town by face at least.  Them, he didn’t recognize.

“Came back from the front a month ago,” Zyk said, still staring hard at the group, his meat pie forgotten.  “Been causing trouble ever since.  Breaking things, harassing people.”  Martin frowned.  When the war in the East first started, returning soldiers had been hailed as heroes, or brave lost souls in need of assistance.  But as the war had dragged on, and more and more destitute, often injured, soldiers had returned, the public opinion soured towards them.  Many of them had turned into simple brutes and thugs, preying on the people they had once fought to protect.

“If you point me towards evidence of wrong doing perhaps I can deal with them,” Martin offered.  Both Zyk and Pans scoffed.

“Oh, you’ll start arresting criminals now?” Zyk asked.  “That doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.” 

“Well, don’t do it where I can see you,” Martin retorted.  “Or better yet, stop doing it.”  Zyk rolled his eyes and chuckled.

“Keep dreaming, darling,” he said sarcastically, but Martin couldn’t help the smile at the pet name, no mater it’d been teasing.

“We don’t want the law getting mixed up down here,” Pans agreed.  “We know you mean well, son, but you let us figure out what we’ll do.”

“Yes, Pans, why don’t you let me?” Zyk asked.

“Don’t be a fool,” Pans snapped.  Zyk pressed his lips together and turned away.  Martin nudged Zyk.

“Just eat your pie,” he said quietly.  “It’s good.”

“You eat it,” Zyk replied, pushing his barely eaten pie into Martin’s hand.  “I’m not hungry anymore.”  Martin grimaced, but set to work on both the pies, deciding to wait out this mood.  Within a couple minutes or so, Zyk turned back to him with at least half of his usual mischievous smile. 

“Hey, how about we—” he began, then yelped as a small hurricane of children surrounded them.  The group grabbed onto Zyk pulling at his legs and clothes and laughing.  “Hey, you little monsters, what are you trying to do?”  He started pulling and shaking them off, laughing along with them.

“I got it!”  One of the smaller boys broke away from the group, holding Zyk’s coin purse triumphantly above his head.  Martin burst out laughing at Zyk’s shocked expression.

“Fisher!” he cried.  “Give that back.”  The little boy charged off and the rest of the children followed.  Zyk dashed after them, but grabbed Martin’s arm quickly as he passed.  “I’ll find you later,” he promised, with a joyous smile that made Martin’s heart stutter in his chest.  Then he was gone, and Martin watched him weave in and out of the crowd as he chased the pack of rascals.

Still chuckling, Martin turned back to Pans, but his laughter died at the old man’s serious expression.  He too was watching the chase, but frowning.

“He’s going to do something,” Pans said.  Martin frowned as well at his dour tone.  “I can always tell when that boy’s going to do something.”

Martin stared after Zyk’s form, slipping through the crowd until he lost sight of him.  The first twisting of worry started in his gut. 

* * *

 

The first pattering of rain hit his forehead, and Martin grimaced.  He had fostered some sort of hope that the weather would change its mind.  That it’d decide this day didn’t need rain as well.  Zyk had not kept his promise to find him later.  The sun had set now, and the lithe pickpocket hadn’t shown his face.

Martin’s obligation as a City Guard to walk the streets of his district had long officially ended, but he couldn’t bring himself to go home just yet.  He limped down the now almost deserted street favoring his old war wound, and mindful of the cobble stones starting to turn slippery with rain.  With the dark and the wet, most people had turned in for the night, taking cover from the storm that was still brewing.  Only a couple street lamps on the corners lit the sidewalks and sides of grungy buildings.

“Couldn’t you have at least shown up, Zyk,” Martin grumbled.  He was frustrated with the pickpocket for making him worry, though he doubted if he had a right to be.  But no matter how much he told himself to go home and forget about it, he couldn’t stop the hollowness in his gut.  He couldn’t shake the dread.

He stopped when he saw a pair of bright eyes peering at him from around a corner.  Martin leaned closer to get a better look in the bad light.  The little pickpocket peered back at him, the one who’d stolen Zyk’s coin purse and whom Martin often saw glued to the man’s side.  The boy looked anxiously around the street and then darted straight to him.

“You’re Zyk’s friend, right?” the boy asked quietly, but urgently.  His eyes were wide, and he looked much younger than he did when learning to cut purses. 

“Yes,” Martin said, nodding as encouragingly as he could.  He didn’t know if Zyk thought of him as a friend, but Martin cared enough about him to be one.  “And you’re Fisher, right?  Is he okay?”

The boy stared at him for a second, and then shook his head.  He reached out suddenly and grabbed Martin’s hand.  He pulled Martin towards the shadows he’d come out of and Martin followed.  They broke into a run as the boy lead him through the back alleys.  The rain drops, big and fat, fell cold and slowly on them.

Martin’s breath came in short gasps as he followed the dark haired child through the streets of the Waterfront, but more with rising anxiety than muffled pain.  The boy skidded to a stop at the mouth of an alley and Martin halted beside him.  He stared up at Martin, fearful, as though begging him to do something.  But Martin didn’t see anything.  He swept the alley with his eyes, but didn’t see…unless—

A weight knocked Martin’s breath from his chest when he saw the small pile of rags curled up beside a stack of crates.

“Zyk.”  Martin stumbled to him and fell to his knees beside his limp figure.  “Zyk,” he whispered, gentling rolling him over.  He suppressed a gasp at the amount of blood his hand came into contact with.  There was so much blood…on his face, on his arms and hands, dripping down his thighs from the back of his pants…

Zyk suddenly lurched away from Martin’s touch.

“No,” he cried out.  “Fucking bastards—please!”  He twisted and lashed out with a fist, but Martin managed to catch it before it made contact.

“Zyk!” he said loudly, he pulled the fist towards him, trying to catch the pain-filled man’s eye.  Zyk froze, then turned towards him.

“Martin,” he breathed.  Martin felt the fight go out of him and the pickpocket went limp.  “Martin…”  To Martin’s shock he saw those blue eyes start to fill with what looked like tears, and pulled the slimmer man against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.  He heard Zyk whimper against his chest and a lump formed in Martin’s throat.  “I’ve got you,” he said around it.  “You’re safe.”

He looked over to see Fisher still staring at them.

“Come over here,” Martin ordered.  “We have to get him to the cathedral, they’ll take care of him.”  The little boy nodded vigorously and rushed to his side.  He was too slight to be of any help in bearing Zyk’s weight, so, maneuvering around the man still in his arms, Martin unstrapped his weapons belt and handed it to the boy.  “Here, hold these so I can carry him.”  The boy took it without argument and Martin heaved Zyk up into his arms.

“No,” Zyk struggling feebly.  “I can walk.  Your leg.”  But his words slurred, and his eyes lost focus. 

“My leg is fine.  You’re hurt,” Martin murmured.  “Let me help you.”  Zyk looked up at him, blinking rapidly and fighting to focus on his face but then his head dropped against Martin’s chest, unconscious.  Martin grimaced and took off out of the alley way as quickly as he could, the boy’s feet pattering after him.

Zyk.

Martin clutched the man tighter.  His chest ached, a gaping raw hole that filled with fear, worry, sadness, and rage.  Even as he ran through the raining streets towards the spires peaking over the building tops his mind struggled to comprehend what has happened, struggled to connect the beaten and battered man in his arms to the cocksure pickpocket who teased him on the streets.  What had they done to him?  The question went round and round in Martin’s head.  He knew what they had done to his body, but what had they done to him?  What had they done to the man that Martin—

He clenched his jaw and pushed more energy into his legs to power himself up the stairs of the church to the entry way.  Fisher bounded up in front of him and pounded on the great wooden double doors.  Rain poured down around them, extinguishing all the lights but the ones cast through the stained glass windows.  Martin hunched over Zyk in a futile effort to protect him from the rain, as the big gothic church hunched over them.  The boy pounded again, harder this time.

“Help us!” he cried.  His face was as wet as the rest of him and Martin wondered if the rain hid tears.  Zyk lay motionless in his arms.  Like dead weight. 

“Open these doors,” he bellowed.  The boy pounded again, harder and without letting up.  Still no answer.  Martin backed up a step, intending to break down the heavy wooden doors as he had as a soldier if he had to.

Just as he inhaled and flexed his muscles, the door swung open, and a man stuck his head out.  He took only a glance at the three of them and then heaved the whole door out of their way. 

“Father, you have to help him,” Martin said as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

“Carry him this way,” the monk ordered, leading them quickly down a side hallway.  Two more monks appeared and joined them. 

“How long has he been unconscious,” one of them asked.

“A few minutes.”

“He was conscious when you found him?”

“Yes, barely.”

Martin followed them into a room with two empty beds on either side.  They quickly pushed him towards one and he lay Zyk down on it with all the gentleness he could muster in his panic.  He felt so infuriatingly fragile, and protectiveness surged through Martin as he left his arms.  The monks pushed him out of their way, jostling him back away from the pickpocket in their rush to care for him.  Martin fell to the back of the room.  He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Zyk’s face.  The chilling paleness of his skin shown in the candlelight and the blood diluted by the water ran in rivulets down his face.  Martin looked down at himself to see the same rivulets running down his arms.

The range of emotions that his worry had stifled started to build in Martin’s chest again.  Someone had beaten and abused Zyk, taken from him with the sort of violence Martin had hoped to never see again.  A monk pushed him gently and insistently out into the hallway.  “There is nothing you can do for him right now.”  He closed the door.

The wood swung shut, hiding Zyk from his view, and Martin began to shake.  He turned slowly to the young boy, still at his side.  He took a step towards him.

“Who did this?” he asked lowly.  The boy’s eyes widened and he took a small step back.  “Tell me who did this to him.”  The boy swallowed.

“It—It was those soldiers,” he stuttered.  “Those ones Zyk hated.”  Martin nodded.  He had already guessed.  He held out his hands.

“Give me back my weapons.”  The boy tightened his hold on them and swallowed.  He looked at Martin fearfully.  Afraid to do as he said, and afraid to disobey.  “Give them to me,” Martin said again.  Slowly the boy handed him back the belt of weapons. 

Martin strapped it back around his waist, feeling grounded as the familiar weight settled. 

“You stay here,” he told the boy.  “Stay with Zyk.  I’ll be back.”  Martin strode quickly to the exit, without a second glance at the door that hid Zyk from view.  The rain still poured when Marten left the church, hammering against the ground and roofs, deafening in Martin’s ears.

He relished the feeling of abject misery of his clothing soaking him to the bone, the splash of puddles as he marched through them, the dull throb in his leg.  An ugly thrill was building in his chest, a singlemindedness he had never felt before, a blood lust he hadn’t known.  He arrived in the Waterfront and went straight for the house of the man that everyone knew and who knew everyone.

He banged on the front door, the crashing sound of his fist even louder than the roaring downpour.  In a moment, the door opened a crack, and Pans appeared, wide eyed and taken aback by Martin’s hulking bulk in the door.

“Son, wha— “

“Where can I find the soldiers?” Martin asked.  Pans swept Martin from head to tow and he knew the old man put everything together in an instant.

“Now, Martin, don’t do anyth— “

“Where can I find them?” Martin asked forcefully.  Mr. Pans stared at him, shocked by the kind guard’s transformation.  Martin was shocked too.  He had never felt like this, this helpless, this angry, and that fury and frustration made him feel powerful, like he could crush anything he could lay his hands on, but that, that…that didn’t matter because it was too late.  Pans seemed to weigh his options, and then replied.

“The abandoned boat warehouse.”

“Thank you.”  Martin nodded. 

He spun around and strode in that direction without another look back; he knew the place.  He didn’t bother to plan, scheme, or ask for back up.  He walked down the middle of the road and pulled his baton from his belt.  He knew somehow, with absolute certainty, that he wouldn’t need anything else. 

He arrived at the abandoned warehouse beside the docks within minutes.  It stood dark and imposing in the night.  The storming sea beat against the wooden docks.  He stood in front of the door.  Clenched his fists.  Took a deep breath.  This wasn’t a house; he didn’t need to knock. 

He raised his leg and kicked the old door down as he’d done dozens of times on the war front years ago.  The wood gave satisfyingly under his muscle and it crashed into the building.  Martin followed it.

Shouts broke out from different corners of the warehouse, within seconds figures came dashing out of the gloom and skidded to a halt before the fallen door.  Rugged men, but eyes wide with dazed disbelief now.  The five of them formed a loose semi-circle around him and the fallen door staring at each other, silent except for the rain falling hard outside. 

Finally, a bearded man pushed forward. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Martin turned to face him.  He narrowed his eyes.  Was this the man?  The man who had cornered Zyk in an alleyway?  Had he made his cronies hold Zyk down while he fucked him.  He took a step forward.

“You raped a man tonight,” he said.  The other four men shifted a bit, backing away from the strange guard that had bust down their door.  But the man in charge just lifted his chin.  Madness danced in his eyes.  The madness of a man who has seen and done too much.  Martin clenched his fist.  A madness he had seen before.   

“Maybe we did,” he said.  “What the hell’s it got to do with you?”

“You don’t deny it,” Martin said.  “Why?”

“'Cause I don’t care if you— “

“Why did you do it?” Martin snarled, taking another step forward and tightening his grip on his baton.  The other men jumped, but the man in front of him balled his fists and took a brave step forward as well.

“’Cause it needed doing,” he snarled back.  “The rat needed to learn respect.  Respect for the war heroes like me.  And besides,” the man smirked in a way that turned Martin’s stomach cold.  “He had a pretty little ass.”

Martin slammed his baton across the man’s face.  The scum reeled backwards, blood spraying across his fellows.  He stumbled, caught himself, and turned back to Martin, blood pouring down his face and into his smirk.  Martin shuddered and struck him again, slamming the man against a crate.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he looked up to meet Martin’s eyes.  His smirk grew and Martin’s mind tumbled back years, a different war, a different time, different men, the same crazed, self-loathing cruelty.  The same war hysteria. 

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it,” the former soldier said, blood staining his crooked teeth.  “You wanted that pretty little ass for yourself.” Martin rammed the shaft of the baton into the man’s abdomen.  He fell to the ground laughing.  “Too late now!” he howled.  “Ruined him for good I did.”

Martin let out a roar and brought his weapon down hard on the man’s head.  He knew it was what the man wanted, but he couldn’t help himself.  Then again, and again, and again.  The thick skull caved in and the wood and metal of his baton bit into soft flesh.  Blood and brain matter and bits of bone splattered all over the crates and floor, Martin’s uniform, and his face.

When nothing remained of the horrid, smirking skull, Martin turned slowly towards the remaining four men.  None of them moved.  These were not men unused to violence, to brutality.  But their minds had not betrayed them so thoroughly as their leader’s had.  Two of them took a hurried step back when Martin’s gaze fell on them.  They were going to run.  They didn’t deserve it that easy.

Martin lunged.

* * *

 

Afterwards, the soldier turned guard turned murderer stepped slowly over the broken bodies, and the broken door, and out into the rain.  It had subsided to a dull shower, constant, long, dependable.  He let it flow over him as he walked back down the street, back the way he had come.  It pulled flecks of bone and mats of blood out of his short hair.  It carried rivulets of pink down his neck and into his stained uniform tunic.

He slipped his baton back into his belt and trudged back to the church.

Zyk.  The man’s face hovered continuously before Martin’s eyes.  It flickered between the cocksure grin it had worn earlier today, and the emptiness it had held when he found him, and no matter how hard Martin tried to fight the image, occasionally it would twist in agony, and struggle, and scream and scream.

Some part of Martin felt that if he had wreaked such havoc on the bodies that had done this to him, then maybe it would lessen the havoc they had done on his.  But he knew that part of him was foolish and arrogant.  Martin was nothing really.  He had no real power.  He was no real force in this world, and was no real thing to Zyk.  Just the guard that had let him get away with too much.

Martin climbed the stairs of the church, each leg as heavy as the stone it fell on, the crippled leg that had gone quiet during his slaughter making itself known now.  One of the monks gasped as he entered.  The rain had washing off much of the gore, but there had been a lot to begin with.  He made his way down the wood paneled hallway, and saw the door to Zyk’s room ajar.  He quickened his pace, and cautiously pushed it open.

The pickpocket lay on the bed Martin had deposited him on, but the blood had been washed away and pristine white linens and salves covered the injuries that had been so apparent before.  He was alive and seeing him there, breathing, Martin realized just how afraid he had been that he wouldn’t be.

“Zyk,” he said softly, moving towards him.  Zyk turned his head stiffly to look at him.  Their gaze met.  But then something flashed quickly through Zyk’s eyes, and he deliberately turned away again.  Martin stopped, taken aback as Zyk rolled to his side, turning his hunched shoulders on Martin.  A monk rose swiftly and stood before him, between him and Zyk.

“You need to leave,” he said softly, but firmly.  Martin refocused his gaze to look at him in utter confusion and pain.

“Why…” he murmured.  _Why does he turn away?_

“You need to go,” the monk repeated again, placing a hand on Martin’s chest and pushed softly.  Martin stepped back obediently, and nodded, dazed.

“I… of course.” He motioned to Fisher, who sat in a corner of the room.  “Come on.”  His voice had never sounded so flat to his own ears.  “I’ll take you home.”

The boy popped from his stool and followed Martin out the door, but they both glanced one last time at the curled figure of Zyk’s back.

* * *

 

Martin did not see Zyk again the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that.  He returned to work.  He patrolled his routes heavy and exhausted, stepping in and addressing people only when necessary.  He walked past the church more times than he needed to.  Zyk must still be in there.  He wondered how long it would take for his body to recover from the beating.  He tried not to think about how long it would take for the rest of him.

Days passed and Martin’s emotional exhaustion faded away, replaced with an anxious energy.  He caught himself multiple times a day scanning the crowd, looking to catch a glimpse of the pickpocket’s dark hair.  He did not dare to return to the church to see if he had recovered.  He tried not to think about how he had been turned out of the building.  He tried not to think about what it could have meant.

He finally saw the man that consumed his thoughts two weeks after he had carried him, half dead into the church.  Zyk wove easily in and out of the crowd as subtle as he had always been.  Only his shock of black hair and Martin’s near obsession brought him to Martin’s attention.

“Zyk,” he called without thinking.  He moved towards the slim figure and Zyk’s head shot around to face him.  They locked eyes briefly.  “Wait,” Martin called out.  But Zyk ducked his head and disappeared into the crowd.  “Wait,” Martin cried again, picking up his pace and diving after him.  He caught a glimpse of dark hair, and pushed roughly after it. 

Martin kept up the chase for over two blocks.  He’d chase after a glimpse and a snatch there, then, just when he’d thought he’d lost him he’d catch another glimpse.  Finally, he saw Zyk clearly again, just a few dozen yards ahead of Martin.

“Zyk, wait please!”  Martin cringed to hear the begging tone in his own voice.  The pickpocket glanced over his shoulder at him, and then dashed into an alleyway.  Martin ran after him, paying little heed to the people he shoved out of his way.  He reached the mouth of the alley finally, and swung desperately into it.  An empty dead end. 

Martin fell against the brick wall, kneading his fingers into his knee, and stared at the street where Zyk had been just a few moments before.  He swallowed slowly, his gut in knots, and ran his hand through his hair.  Did he blame him?  Did Zyk blame him for the horror he’d undergone?  Martin would not argue with him if he did.  Sometimes he thought he blamed himself as well.  He should have recognized the war hysteria in the men as soon as he saw them.  He should have told Zyk what it could mean.

Or perhaps it was simply that Zyk did not care so much at all.  Perhaps he was embarrassed that Martin should have found him in his worst moments and didn’t wish to confront him about it, when he was just a simple guard whom he could give the slip whenever he pleased.

A blade of self-loathing and pain buried itself to the hilt in Martin’s stomach and twisted.  Either way, it seemed that Zyk had no interest in seeing him again.  He turned out of the alleyway.

Just outside the mouth stood an older woman and her daughter.  They stared at Martin.  They were familiar faces.  Residents of the Waterfront that he had dealt pleasantly with once or twice.  Now he could see the pity etched clearly in their features.  He opened his mouth to address them, but didn’t know what to say.  They both nodded politely and then bustled away.

Now that he had seen the first look by that mother and daughter, he noticed them more and more throughout the week.  Where ever he went he would catch residents of the Waterfront watching him with sad, pitying eyes.  And every time he tried, and failed to catch Zyk, he would look around to see himself the center of sympathetic attention.

But no one approached him.  No one told him why they found him such a sad specimen.  Was he that clear to read?  Was his anguish public knowledge?  Was his need for Zyk written on his skin?

Because it had become clear to Martin that it was need he felt.  A need to see the man, to verify his wholeness, to touch him, to hold him as he had once thought he might.  His mind replayed their last friendly moments together over and over in his head.  Zyk’s quick fingers snatching his purse from his belt, laughing at the young children, and then catching Martin’s arm and promising to find him later.  Every time his mind conjured up the image of Zyk’s parting smile, the way his daring eyes tightened Martin’s stomach, he felt the hard blade of his despair twist deeper, and his mind quickly flashed to the feeling of a skull crumbling beneath his baton.

Weeks after he had carried Zyk to the church, Martin found himself outside Pan’s stand.  He’d been avoiding the older man, too ashamed of his apparently public pain to speak of it.  But he’d accepted that Zyk would never approach him on his own, and he couldn’t take it any longer.

Pans saw him, and he hung to the side, out of the way of the busy stand and waited until it emptied.  When a straggling customer had finished her purchase and a gap appeared in the flow, Pans turned towards him.  He picked up a warm pie, set it on a piece of paper, and pushed it towards him.

“Have a pie, son,” he said softly.  Martin smiled weakly, but shook his head.  He’d lost his appetite some time ago.  And his ability to sleep.  He didn’t need a looking glass to tell him that dark bags hung under his eyes.   

“I need to find him, Pans,” he said.  The older man sighed, and looked at Martin with the same sadness he had been seeing in everyone’s eyes.

“And what will you do if you find him?” he asked.  Martin frowned and looked away.

“I just need to understand,” he said. 

“There isn’t a way to understand what he’s been through.”

“I know,” Martin said quietly.  He looked up at Pans again, too far gone to be ashamed of pleading.  “But…”

Mr. Pans sighed, and pulled out a hunk of raw dough.  He began kneading it harshly, squeezing and pushing it with his gnarled fingers.

“He’s staying in an old hovel,” the old man finally said, still focused on the dough in his hands.  “It’s that dump on the corner of 4th and 7th.  Abandoned.  It’s where he used to sleep as a kid, still crawling with all the street kids he took under his wing.  I don’t know where you’ll find him during the daytime, but after dark that’s where he’ll be.”  Martin’s heart jumped with hope.

“Thank you,” he said, and left.

* * *

 

Martin stood in the shadows across from the abandoned warehouse, so similar to the one the soldiers had been living in.  He couldn’t bring himself quite yet to go in.  Zyk was in there.  Avoiding him.  He should leave him there.  He couldn’t have made it much clearer that he had no desire to see Martin.  Martin swallowed.

He could walk away.  He _should_ walk away.  The respectful thing to do would be to walk away.  But he couldn’t make his feet step backwards anymore than he could make them move forward.  He couldn’t walk away from Zyk.  Even if Zyk seemed to be walking away from him.

Martin clenched his fists, relaxed them, and then slowly approached the buiding.  As he neared the dark doorways, he felt a shy, familiar gaze.  He paused, looked around, and caught sight of a pair of bright eyes peering at him from behind a pile of junk near the door.  

“Hey kid,” he said.  At his acknowledgment Fisher ran up to him.  Similar to when he had found him that night, he seemed uncomfortable out in the open.

“Are you here for Zyk?” the boy asked.  Martin nodded.  The boy looked relieved. 

“Good.”  He grabbed Martin’s hand and pulled him into the shadows with him.  Martin stumbled after, surprised but now even more concerned. 

“Why good?” he asked urgently as they slipped around the building and crawled up a ledge to a window on an upper level.

“He’s been acting weird,” the boy said.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, just weird,” the boy replied, an edge of impatience in his voice.  Martin didn’t press farther.  A boy his age couldn’t possibly understand what Zyk had gone through, or what it could do to a man.  At least, Martin hoped he couldn’t.  The boy wiggled effortlessly through the little window, and Martin followed with more difficulty.  He was taller and broader across than the lithe pickpockets like Zyk and the company he kept and he was trying to be quiet.

They emerged into a dusty corridor.  Doors lined the walls and flickers of light licked out of most of them.  Martin carefully stepped down the hallway and peered inside one.  A group of four youths huddled around a fire, playing with mismatched gaming pieces, some of which looked handmade.  They glanced at him warily, sizing him up and Fisher at his side, but didn’t stop their game.

“You live here?” Martin asked, though of course he knew the answer.  For some reason, he’d imagined living in a place like this meant just needing a place to sleep.  He hadn’t thought of it as the place where these children made friends, played games, _lived_.

“Zyk lives in the last room,” Fisher said suddenly about halfway down the hallway.  He gestured to the large door at the end of the hall.  He seemed reluctant to go any farther, and Martin didn’t ask him to.  He gripped his thin shoulder warmly, and then stepped past him.

“Thank you.”

Martin knew it couldn’t be the case, but this half of the hallway seemed longer, and his boots on the concrete louder.  After what seemed like forever but all too soon he reached the door.  He breathed deeply.

It wasn’t too late.  He could still turn back.  He could still respect Zyk’s space.  Leave him be.  But he was so close, and Martin didn’t know how much longer he could patrol the streets not knowing if Zyk would ever show up again.

He glanced over his shoulder and realized that it was in fact too late.  He stood already at the end of the hall of this abandoned warehouse and all down it young faces peered out of doorways watching him.  At the other end of the hallway, near the stairwell, older figures lingered, watching him as well.  Everyone worried about Zyk and they thought he could help.

Martin swallowed and turned back to the door.  He knew he ought to knock, but he pushed the door open tentatively instead.

This space was bigger than the other rooms he had seen, and fuller, more lived in.  Boxes and shelves lined the walls, knick-knacks scattered about here and there.  A makeshift pallet lay by a fire place in which a warm fire crackled.  A thin figure sat hunched on this pallet, looking into the flames.  Martin closed the door behind him.

“Zyk,” he said softly.  The figure stiffened, held that taut posture for a moment, and then curled in tighter on itself.

“What are you doing here?” Zyk asked tightly without looking up.  The sound of that tight voice, nothing like the free-flowing voice of before hurt Martin more sharply than he had expected.

“I came to find you,” Martin said, taking care to keep his voice as calm and gentle as possible.  He moved towards him, about to sit across the fire from him, but then thought better of it and instead sat next to him, a couple arm’s distances between them.

He studied the pickpocket unabashedly.  Zyk’d always been thin, but he was slightly thinner now; some of his muscle mass seemed to have melted.  His bruises and cuts had healed, but his eyes had sunk into a sallow face.  Those eyes held nothing but emptiness.   Martin thought he maybe saw a bit of pain, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Why?” 

“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“No, you haven’t.  I’ve been avoiding you,” Zyk replied in a low, almost accusatory voice.  Martin winced and looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.  Zyk sighed, low, bitter, frustrated.

“For what,” he asked.  Martin winced again.

“For seeking you out when I knew you didn’t want to see me,” Martin said honestly.  “And for whatever I did to make you feel that way.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Zyk said shortly.  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”  He turned away and faced the back of his shoulder to Martin.  “So you can go now.”

“That can’t be,” Martin said and noted with horror the desperation in his voice.  He’d intended to be calm, rational, to leave once he had asserted that he was in fact unwanted.  But he found that resolve crumbling now.  “I must have done something, I—” Martin broke off and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes.  The waves of guilt he had held off crashed over him. 

“I should have protected you,” he said, all of his fears bubbling out of his throat.  “I should have warned you.  I should have been there.  I should have done anything.  I should have never let this happen to you.”  He looked up from his hands to see Zyk staring at him.  “I’m sorry, Zyk.  I’m so, so sorry.”

The pickpocket stared at him a moment longer, mouth hanging open just slightly.  Then he let out a little growl and got up, walking away from Martin.  He stalked to the other side of the room, crossing his arms in front of a shelf filled with the odds and ends of his belongings. 

“Stop being an idiot, Martin.  There was nothing you could have done.  Don’t beat yourself up.”  Despite his words, his tone was sharp.  Martin could feel the pickpocket slipping through his fingers and out of his life like ice water, and he panicked. 

“Then why?” he cried, rising to his feet as well.

“Why what, Martin?” Zyk demanded, spinning around.  “What do you want?”  Martin winced, the words like a slap in the face.  He turned towards the door, not able to look at Zyk’s face, twisted in anger.  He wished he hadn’t come.  Wished he could have at least kept the uncertainty, the possibility that Zyk might show up behind him in some alley again.  He swallowed the constriction in his throat.

“I wanted _you_ ,” he whispered hoarsely.  He hesitated, standing just in front of the door.  The silent moment stretched longer and longer, and Martin crumbled.  He wanted to turn back to Zyk, beg him, plead with him.  But he controlled himself.  Just as he reached to the door handle, he stilled at the sound of Zyk’s voice.

“I wanted you, too.”  The words were almost too quiet, and a part of Martin feared he had made them up in his head.  He turned slowly and saw that Zyk still had his back to him, but his face in profile to Martin.  He couldn’t breathe through the hope that choked him.  “But it’s too late now.”

Martin clenched his fists and stepped away from the door again.  “You feel the same,” he said, still barely daring to believe that Zyk really might have returned the feelings he’d harbored for so long.

“I—,” Zyk broke off and swallowed.  He turned his face away again and Martin had the urge to pull him around again to face him.  “I had thought—” He paused again, leaving Martin hanging on his every word.  “That there could have been something between us.  I…it doesn’t matter.”  Zyk sighed.  “Like I said, it’s too late.”

“Why,” Martin said again, taking another step towards the slender man.  “That’s all I need to know, why?  Why are you running from me?”

“Because I can’t do anything else!” Zyk yelled back.  “You don’t understand.”  He broke from his rigid stance in front of the shelves and began pacing, fingers clenching and unclenching.  “I can’t even look at you.”

“I’m sorry— “

“Stop saying that!”  He stopped pacing and faced Martin, the pain clear in his eyes.  “Every time I look at you all I can think about is how I can never have you.”  Martin’s heart stopped in his chest.  He swallowed a few times, his mouth suddenly dry.  He approached Zyk cautiously, warily.

“But you can have me, Zyk,” he said slowly, quietly.  He reached towards him, but stopped, not daring to touch.

“Not the way I wanted you,” Zyk said, closing his eyes.  The hopelessness in his voice made Martin reach out, brushing his fingers along the man’s arm.  Zyk tensed, but didn’t pull away.  Emboldened, Martin stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, and for the musky, spicy scent of him to fill his nose.

“Why not?” Martin reached up and cautiously dragged his knuckles against Zyk’s stubbled cheek.  The pickpocket turned into the touch and his eyes flickered open briefly, before squeezing shut again.  This time though, Martin recognized shame in them.

“I just can’t…”

Martin tilted his head towards him, inhaling his scent and running his fingers up his lean arms.  He couldn’t image anything this perfect man had to be ashamed of.  He relished the feel of him so close, almost light headed.  He leaned closer until his lips hovered just above Zyk’s.  The pickpocket’s breath turned ragged and the hot puffs of his breath dissipated across Martin’s lips.

Finally, Zyk closed the gap, kissing him with the same desperation Martin felt.  His lips were dry, and chapped, and Martin didn’t think he had ever longed for anything more.  He cupped his hand around the side of Zyk’s neck and angled his head so he could pull him closer, kiss him more deeply.  Gods, everything he had ever wanted filled that kiss.  Martin’s head pounded in his chest, and he tightened his grip on the other man’s arm, as though afraid if he loosened his hold he would slip away from him again.  Zyk fisted his hands in the front of Martin’s shirt and pulled him flush against him and Martin could barely bite back a moan at the feel of him.

Zyk’s lips parted beneath his in invitation, and Martin tentatively licked inside.  Zyk’s mouth was hot and perfect and Martin surged forward, plunging his tongue into Zyk, caressing and devouring desperately.  Zyk moaned and the sound shot straight to Martin’s groin, making him shiver with lust.

Suddenly, Zyk’s body went rigid, Martin barely had a moment to register his sudden change when Zyk shoved him away violently.  The pickpocket scrambled away, falling over himself until he got his back against the wall.  He pressed into the stone, panting and shaking.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he repeated, staring at the floor beside Martin’s feet.  Martin kept his distance and held his hands up trying to look as nonthreatening as possible, and trying to get his racing heart rate down.

“Zyk,” he murmured urgently.  “Breathe.  Just breathe.”  He inched closer and let his tone drop to a more soothing cadence.  “That’s right.  It’s alright.”  Zyk’s breath evened out, and he slumped against the wall and his shelves, the two hard surfaces supporting him and holding him up.  Finally, Zyk looked him in the eye again, exhaustion, shame, and fear swimming in the blue depths.  Martin swallowed.  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he ordered gently.  Zyk took a few more breaths, and when he looked more steady, he spoke again.

“Every time I…think about being with you, I remember…that night.”  Revulsion and horror twisted Zyk’s features.  “And the pain, and the—” He pressed a hand over his face.  “The thought of being with another man, even you, makes me—makes it hard for me to _breathe_.”

Martin stared at Zyk, sympathy and fury and overwhelming protectiveness warring inside him.  He he had already crushed the men who had done this to him.  He had felt their bones break beneath his hands and their blood drip between his fingers.  Zyk and what they had done to him were all that was left, and Zyk was all that mattered.

“Zyk,” Martin said softly.  He almost apologized again, but remembered that the man had snapped at him for it beforehand.  Instead, he just pressed forward.  “I will never touch you like that.”

“I know,” Zyk said, looking at him sadly.  “I know.”  Martin took a step towards him.

“And I will never do anything or demand anything that you don’t want to give.”

“I know that,” Zyk insisted.  “I just can’t ever have what I wanted.”

“Do you want me?” Martin asked.  Zyk startled enough to look him in the eye. 

“I…I do, but— “

“Not me inside of you”— Zyk winced at the blunt picture— “just me.”  Martin stepped closer and watched him.  Zyk swallowed, and the nodded slowly.  Martin licked his lips and stepped closer again, until he could feel the man’s intoxicating warmth. 

“Can I kiss you?” Martin asked softly.  Zyk’s eyes widened and stared at him uncertainly.  Then he nodded slowly again.  Martin pressed his lips to Zyk’s again.  They were stiff and unyielding, and Martin didn’t press, just molded their mouths together softly until he felt some of the tension drain from Zyk’s taut body.

Instead of deepening the kiss, Martin left his lips and dragged the tip of his nose up his neck, nuzzling softly behind his ear.

“Can I kiss you here?” he asked.  Zyk nodded, and Martin did, the skin of the pickpocket’s neck impossible soft against his lips.  He flicked his tongue out to taste and Zyk gasped softly.  Every little sound Zyk made quickened Martin’s pulse and he focused on coaxing out more of those vulnerable, wanton sounds.  Martin moved to his neck, admiring the strong tendon there.  “And here?” 

“Yes.”  Zyk nodded, swallowed.

Martin moved lower and to the other side, burying his face in Zyk’s neck and surrounding himself in that intoxicating scent.  He tongued the dip in his collarbone.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Zyk’s hands came to rest tentatively on Martin’s shoulders, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer.  Martin closed his eyes.

“Do you want me to stop?” he murmured.

“No,” Zyk replied quickly.  Martin pulled back slightly.

“Are you sure— “

“I said, no.”  Zyk’s eyes pressed shut, but he tightened his grip on Martin’s shoulders.  Martin understood.  This was important to Zyk.  Martin ran his hands lightly up Zyk’s sides, admiring the graceful form before him.  He tugged lightly at the dirty tunic.

“May I take this off?”

Zyk swallowed again, but nodded.  Martin gently began lifting it, but when it got halfway up Zyk’s abdomen, the pickpocket’s hands pushed his away.  His eyes flew open and he stared at Martin.

“You first,” he said, his voice edged with shame.  Martin nodded.  He would do anything for Zyk right now.  He unstrapped his weapons belt and let it fall to the ground, nudging it away from them with his boot.  Then he stripped off his own tunic in one fluid motion.

He stood before Zyk, bare chested, but didn’t reach out for the smaller man.  He knew he cut an intimidating figure: bare chested, muscular, larger than Zyk, and with an undeniable bulge straining in his trousers.  He wanted to give the man a chance to back out if he wanted.  Zyk stared at him, emotions warring in his eyes, and for a moment Martin thought he _would_ back out.  But then he steeled his eyes and tore off his own tunic, tossing it across the room as though to deny himself the ability to change his mind.

But Martin would always let him change his mind.

“Can I touch you?” Martin breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from the smooth planes of the body before him.

“Yes.”  And Martin stepped close again, giving in to the temptation to feel and caress and explore.  He dropped his head back into the hollow of Zyk’s neck and groaned as their bodies finally pressed together.  Martin’s head spun, his every sense electrified with Zyk’s closeness, his heat, his smells, the feel of him against him.  He canted his hips experimentally, pressing their hard length’s against each other and Zyk moaned, burying his head in Martin’s shoulder.

“Oh gods, Zyk.”  Martin fought the urge to dig his fingertips into the lean muscles under his calloused hands.  He shuddered and felt Zyk press his face against his skin and grip his upper arms tightly.

“Martin, I just can’t…I want you, but I can’t…not inside me.”

Martin instinctively tightened his hold and cradled Zyk against his chest.

“I don’t want that,” he said firmly.  “It’s not the only way.”

“But it’s what I wanted,” Zyk snapped, and he banged his fist on Martin’s chest.  “It’s what I wanted and they took it.”  Martin caught Zyk’s clenched fist.  He brought it up slowly to his lips.

“They can’t take everything,” he whispered.  “Let me do something for you, please?”  Zyk regarded him warily, but nodded.

Slowly, Martin lowered himself to his knees, and Zyk’s eyes widened.  Martin caressed the V of his hips lightly.

“Can I kiss you here?” he asked.  Zyk licked his lips and nodded.  Martin leaned forward and dragged his tongue from one sharp hip bone down the line of muscle to the waist band of the pickpocket’s trousers, tasting the slight saltiness of his skin.

“Can I take these off?” He heard Zyk’s hard swallow.

“Yes.”

Martin eased the trousers over Zyk’s hips, trying to hide the shaking of his fingers.  He didn’t have much experience with men, had only ever done this a handful of times.  But he had never wanted this more in his life, and had never cared so much about it going well.

He pulled the pants the rest of the way down, freeing Zyk’s now straining cock.  His mouth went dry at the sight and he leaned in before he could doubt himself.  A moan vibrated up his throat at the hot weight of Zyk on his tongue, and he greedily engulfed the rest of Zyk’s length, sucking down as much as he could.

Zyk cried out and tangled his fingers in Martin’s hair, pulling tight.  Martin pulled off immediately, and looked up in Zyk’s face.  He panted, pupils blown wide.

“Can I do this?” Martin asked.  “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Zyk said breathlessly.  “Oh gods yes, please don’t stop.”

Martin obliged immediately, hollowing his cheeks around Zyk’s length as the other man tangled his finger’s desperately in his hair.  Zyk tasted salty and sweat slicked, the smell of his musk over powered all other scents in the room.  Martin gripped each of his muscular thighs to steady himself, trying not to dig his fingers in so painfully, but delighting in the way they shivered under his grip as he tongued at Zyk’s slit.

He hummed his approval as Zyk whimpered, his deft pickpocket’s hand shaking as it smoothed the hair from Martin’s forehead.

“Martin, Martin,” Zyk repeated his name like a mantra and Martin fought the urge to reach down and stroke himself to the sound of his own name on Zyk’s tongue.  Instead he fondled Zyk’s heavy balls as he quickened his pace.  He swallowed Zyk’s length until he nosed at the curls on his groin, and then pulled back off to mouth lovingly at the head, before going down again.  He only handled his balls with the utmost gentleness, never straying too far back, refusing to go anywhere near a place that might make Zyk panic.  This was not about pushing boundaries.  He only wanted Zyk to feel pleasure, only desire and satisfaction and white hot pleasure, only to feel the worship Martin lavished on his body.

“Martin, I—I’m going to--.” Zyk cut off in a shudder and Martin doubled his efforts, sucking desperately as the slim man quaked under his hands.  Finally, the man pulled taut as a bowstring, his muscles clenched, and he shot down Martin’s throat with a cry.  Martin held tight to his hips, milking him through his orgasm, and swallowing every drop of his bitter cum. 

Zyk’s knees buckled, only the strong grip of Martin’s hands holding him up.  Martin pressed feather light kisses onto his hips, and then up his chest as he stood to his feet, knee throbbing.  He wrapped an arm around Zyk’s waist to support his weight as the other man panted.  Still out of breath, Zyk reached down and cupped Martin’s groin.  Martin bit back a moan, but wrapped his hand around Zyk’s wrist and pulled him away from his aching erection.

“Don’t worry about that,” he murmured, and supported Zyk over to the pallet beside the fire.  Before getting there, Zyk pushed away enough to stand on his own, but still let Martin wrap protectively around him.

“I should at least—” Zyk insisted, reaching for him again.

“No,” Martin said firmly.  “I don’t care about that right now.”  Despite his earlier protestations, Zyk gave him a small relieved smile.  He sat down on the pallet with a sigh when he reached it.  Martin lay down and pulled Zyk gently down beside him.  He pulled him close and nuzzled his neck.  Zyk didn’t tense, didn’t fight, just relaxed back against him.

“Thank you, Martin,” Zyk whispered.  Martin smiled against his skin.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” he said, letting a bit of teasing creep into his tone.  “It was my pleasure.”

“But mostly mine,” Zyk retorted with a small laugh.  He paused, and Martin felt his throat work as he swallowed.  He waited patiently for whatever the pickpocket would say.  “Will—will you stay with me?”

“As long as you’ll let me,” Martin replied. 

* * *

 

The streets of the Waterfront bustled with people.  Martin crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at a street corner, resting his aching knee with a satisfied smile on his face.  The weather was good, and after the wet winter they’d had the blue sky made people more amiable and less quick to anger.  It was a good day to be a guard.

As he stood watching a mother attempt to wrangle her young daughter, he felt a suspicious nudge at his hip.  He spun around and caught the offending wrist in an iron grip.  Zyk gave him a lopsided smile, not attempting to get his hand back.

“You’re getting better,” he said.

“I should be used to the feel of your hands on me by now,” Martin replied with a raised eye brow.  He let Zyk go and the pickpocket joined him leaning against the wall, close enough for their shoulders to brush. 

“Did you hear Pans’ daughter had her baby?” Zyk asked, fingers playing teasingly against Martin’s own.

“I did,” Martin replied with a smile.  “Are you about to suggest we go investigate to be sure the babe’s not a threat to the Waterfront?”

“It is your duty, after all,” Zyk winked.  He finally intertwined his fingers with Martin’s, and tugged him out into the bubbling crowd. 

The End 

      

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: and there you have it! A happy ending all around. I hope you enjoyed it and I hope to hear from you in the future :)
> 
> ~Eryn


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